The Distorted State of Mind
by BecauseF.ckYouThat'sWhy
Summary: Being a pregnant assasin is no fun. Being mentally unstable and incomprehensible even more so. Having to understand and reason with a pregnant, unstable and incomprehensible assasin just takes the cake. Not to mention the battle for the child's life and the ensuing fatherhood. Truly a task for gods. / m-preg Hawkeye with dub-con Frosthawk Loki/Clint and Thunderhawk Thor/Clint


**Read this. Just please. **

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**Thank you. First off all, please don't flame me for the Auschwitz comments, yeah? It was a horrible place, the fate of the people there has been incomparable and shocking and beyond sad and should not be made fun of or played down and I am sorry for doing the opposite in this chapter. **

**Furthermore we got mentioning of dub-con and, of course, the delicate topic of abortion, which will be vastly made fun of sooner or later, as well as a messed up understanding of emotions, constructed out of one way roads, perjury, hypocriticism, loop holes and overlapping and self-negating logic without base that constantly runs in circles.**

**Please, pretty, pretty please, don't give me hell for this. If you are sensitive when it comes to these topics and issues, do yourself (and me) the favour of not reading this!**

**Don't tell me I didn't warn you, 'cause I did.**

**I would make you tick one of these 'I read and agree to the terms and conditions' fields now, but we don't have any… So just nod your head and say 'I understood'. **

**You may now go ahead and enjoy my latest mental fall-out.**

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**_A Distorted State of Mind_**

_The Problem and The Triplets_

Clint had a problem. A fairly huge one. Well, not that huge, as at the moment the physical appearance of his problem was still remotely small which, however, didn't make it any less of a huge problem. Clint was pregnant. That itself already sucked. Yet, what even more sucked was the fact that he had no fucking idea whatsoever who the father was. The circle of possible candidates was ridiculously small, but then again, that didn't make this problem any smaller as well. Mostly because contemplable were either that the father was the now imprisoned lunatic demigod Loki who tried to take over earth and controlled the archer's mind for a long, barely reminded part of the process - a long part that included blurry pictures of time spent in his tormentor's luxury bed, of hands ghosting over his skin and lips pressing against his, images Clint was far from being comfortable with - and with 'far from being comfortable with' we mean Auschwitz-Birkenau during 1944 would have been prime fun time in comparison (A/N: now see authors note in the beginning again to remind yourself of not hating on me).

The other possibility of fathering this particular problem - a possibility that wasn't any better, but just a very different kind of problematic - was said tormentor's brother and God of Thunder from whom Clint had derived comfort during those nights in the aftermath, in which the memories came crashing down on him and confused him so much that he could no longer remember as to where the old him ended and the brainwashed one started and Auschwitz became a particularly attractive and auspicious holyday resort. Nights in which nimble fingers felt just a little bit too good for a victim of more-or-less _definitely _rape and just a little bit too right for a defender of some laws and just a little bit too real for anyone remotely sane. Those nights he sought out the strong arms of Thor and after having those memories and doubts thoroughly pounded out of him and the fleeting feeling of elegant, possessive fingers caressing him replaced by the pressure of powerful, calloused hands that bruised his skin in such a soothing manner, he curled up next to the Norse god, protectively held against a warm chest, and slept numbly, without dreams and just a very little bit at ease and Auschwitz was just one of the most horrible places in history once again.

It went like that for several weeks - five weeks, three days, eight hours, thirty-six minutes and 29 seconds, not that anyone was actually keeping a very precise track- until the horrid point of dooming clarity. That very second Clint figured out that he was indeed pregnant - given away by twelve days nearly without food, an acid burnt throat every morning and a constant craving for chocolate chip cookies with mustard - and after enough pregnancy tests to supply all pubescent teenage girls of America, it took him exactly three seconds more to decide how to proceed. Those three seconds were not spent on thinking, but merely on saying the words out loud: I will not have a child.

That should have solved the problem. Period. The End. And he lived happily ever after. Permanently. But no. It just tipped over the first domino in a very long, twisted and interlaced line. Because things needed to be complicated for Clint. One could think he was a simple man, given that he was an assassin and pulling a trigger or releasing the string of a bow for a living sounded rather simple, but the archer's whole life has been a mess and twisted him in all sorts of ways and back again only to start a new and in another way until nothing was easy anymore and crippled, insane emotional webs became a new base line in life to walk on; tricky and full of holes and easy to get tangled and lost in; thus only permitting him to do things in certain ways to keep himself in line and from wandering into the dark abyss that was his own personal hell of lunacy, dependence and hope for a silver lining.

So instead of permanently and simply just getting rid of whatever was growing inside of him via abortion, Clint made a drama out of it. A giant domino chain reaction.

And all of it just because of these fucking feelings. Feelings abused, suppressed, tampered with and mutilated beyond recognition.

There was for one Self Loath which always went merrily hand in hand with the Urge of Self Punishments and Self Destruction; three particularly close siblings, who visited Clint every once in while in the past, for example after he shot his brother in the face or after he pushed his former mentor and guardian of a building or after eating the triple chocolate cake Coulson bought for Hill's birthday all by himself. You see, Barton was pretty good friends with the Triplets and they had a long history together, which however didn't mean that he could work through them any more quickly. The quickest way for Clint to cope with these three particular feelings was usually to focus his attention on another trio, going by the names of Jim, Jack and Johnny, however in this case exactly the nature of the secondly mentioned group only triggered a the next different mechanism in the chain reaction.

Because now one could assume that either scraping something out of your body (or respectively killing with alcohol), something that is positively _growing inside_ of it, is being _a part of it_, might fall under Self Destruction's area of responsibility, but Clint was still very much convinced that he would do himself in fact _a favour _when getting rid of what was growing inside of him.

And now _this_ was the exact part where Self Punishment kicked in. Quite literally. Because doing yourself a favour when you positively hate yourself for various things – letting yourself be mind controlled, getting raped and almost, sometimes _totally_ _not _ enjoying it for one, then having sex with the brother, cuddly and sweet, who just can't comprehend how big of a cluster fuck you are, and who is just too kind hearted for you to understand, and, of course, in the end getting fucking pregnant – just is not part of the program and thus is generally avoided and is instead counteracted with Self Punishing behaviour such as actually keeping what you wanted to have cut out of your body to begin with just to make yourself suffer.

It was pure and simple Self Destruction. Some people would drink themselves into coma, others snorted cocaine until the brain would liquefy, another group of people would slice there arms into pieces, Clint would have a baby. Simple mechanism of Self Destruction.

That is how it was.

That is what it was.

That is what was for the best.

That is what he kept telling himself.

…Suit yourself, Clint.

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**This is quite hard to read, even for myself. Very long sentences, interlaced and fucked around with, with tormenting logic can be somewhat confusing.**

**The reason this whole emotion thing is so very messed up, is because I like to think that Clint is quite a mess himself and therefore not thinking coherently in any way, not because I feel this way.**

**By the way, this is also a _life sign_. I have not abandoned my stories. I had my school leaving exams, graduated, moved to London, started working full time and I am writing applications constantly, which doesn't leave much time for continuing my fanfictions. But rest assured, the chapters for **_**Black Innocence **_**and **_**The Many Quirks of Clint Barton**_** are very much in the making! Plus a Mission Impossible: Phantom Protocol/Avengers One Shot. **

**Bear with me, please. This one has just been begging to be written and was another reason for me to avoid my other stories, because I find it so much easier to begin a new story than to continue another one…**

**Until then, **

**Cheerio n_n **


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